Imprisoned
by chemicalflashes
Summary: "I'm going there. I'm nearly seventeen, anyway. You in?" Prisoner 1101 does not remember a lot of things, except his brother's last goodbye to him. [VoldemortWins!AU]


**A/N: I was inspired by all the VoldemortWins!AU stories currently circulating in the recently updated stories list because of the QLFC. One of these stories was** ** _The Children Go Marching_** **by whitetiger91. You should definitely check it out.**

 **This story is NOT a part of my canon compliant decayverse series.**

 **••• By the way, this is dedicated to the amazing whitetiger91. :D**

. . . ...

 _Imprisoned_

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his life is patterned

memories of the past

and cries of hunger

in an infinite loop

that just goes on

from dusk to dawn

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 _"I'm going there. I'm nearly seventeen, anyway. You in?"_

 _"I'll follow you shortly."_

The memory is clear in his mind. His brother had always been the first to do anything, and that fateful day had not been any exception. He remembers how his brother had given him a small smile before turning away and sneaking back into the School with some other Muggle-born boy.

He had not looked back, not even a single glance.

And he never saw him again.

Prisoner 1101 does not remember a lot of things and he is surprised that he can recount his brother's last goodbye to him. The next thing he remembers in clarity is when Death Eaters had broken into the Hog's Head and stupefied him and the other people hiding there.

And when he had opened his eyes, he had found himself here - in Azkaban - with no wand or no idea of how he got here. They had not waited in branding him; apparently, it had already been determined that he was a Muggle-born and they had broken the news of his brother being dead amidst laughter.

1101 - it is seared on his soul now. Perhaps, it always will be, reminding him over and again of his meaningless, small place in the vast scheme of things every time he happens to look at his wrist.

The room is large and dark and it stinks. When the smell gets too much for the guards, they come and burn up some camphor by the entrance and let it diffuse through the foul air. As for him, his nose has got resistant to all these odours by now. Sometimes, a salty draught blows in from some unseen opening high up in the ceiling and it is the only thing he gets to feel as a contact with the world outside.

There are no chains or manacles to hold him or his fellow Muggle-borns in their places. All of them are free to roam about - not that most of them can do it now; in the early days of their imprisonment, the guards had loved to watch them fight like animals whenever a piece of stale bread was thrown in. There is a single magical boundary in place of an entrance door and 1101 had discovered on his first day that it has the ability to give people a rather strong electric shock.

He does not remember how many days he has been here for. There is no day or night in Azkaban, only eternal darkness and trying to keep count of time is just an exercise in futility.

The Dementors come daily. ( _Hourly? Weekly? Monthly?_ He has lost sense of time.) They suck on his brain - whatever that is left of it, anyway. Bit by bit, he remembers less and less, and becomes more and more sessile.

One day, a new prisoner is thrown in.

She calls herself Orla Quirke and she shakes him hard when he does not remember who she is.

"Best friends," she whispers, "We used to be best friends."

1101 tilts his head to the right to look at her from a new angle, but the slight change in the viewpoint does not help even a single bit in recounting who she was to him.

"What year is it now?" he asks instead of rummaging his mind for memories that are not there.

"2000. We're nearly seventeen now, you and I."

His brother had been nearly seventeen before his death.

The girl gives up on making him remember about their days spent together at Hogwarts after some useless attempts and sits beside him in silence. She looks at her newly branded wrist.

("2786," it reads.)

The Dementors come in right then to find prey to feast upon. They disappear into the depths of the room and visit every corner. Two of them come towards them. The girl - Orla - shrieks at the sight of them. That does not stop them from siphoning off her mind. They do the same with him, but he barely notices what they do during their comings and goings now.

The Dementors do not have eyes, not the real, proper ones, anyway. They have black spots instead of those. Whenever they drink away his memories, they stare him right in the eyes with these spots - these eyes-but-not-eyes. The one who is currently hovering over him is doing it.

When the thing is over, he lets the shaken girl lay her head in his dirty lap. She is quivering and he runs his hands through her golden hair. They sleep like that.

They are woken up the next morning ( _afternoon? evening? night?_ ) by the shrill sound of a guard banging a large, wooden spoon on a battered steel plate. The man is standing in the middle of their cell.

"Get moving, you filthy mudbloods!" he bellows, "It's time for your last kiss!"

When they do not start getting up, he calls in the other guards and the brutes grasp them by the arms and begin plucking them out of their places. He stumbles as he is made to stand upright; his bony feet are weak. The guard gives him a rough push and he would have fallen if Orla had not caught him. She glares at the man. He can see that a tear is making its way down on one of her cheeks.

The corridor outside is dark, like the room and the walk to the Execution Chamber seems long. They are made to go down the corridor in a single, long queue. Orla walks behind him, steadying him whenever he slips or stumbles. The guards laugh.

They stop walking when they reach a narrow, wooden door. People go in and never come back. Whenever someone enters the Chamber, the guards lock the door behind them. A few times, he hears fists banging the wood or loud wailing or a combination of both. Time passes quickly and he finds himself standing in front of the wretched door.

"Any last wish, Prisoner 1101?" one of the guards mocks him.

And suddenly, he remembers. Desperate people focussed not to delve on the circumstances of their lives do strange things.

"My name is Dennis Creevey!" he snarls. "Not 1101."

"Whatever, mudblood," another guard speaks up.

The door is opened and he is kicked in.

He manages to get up somehow and take in the sight before him. The room is long and a little narrow. There is an open door at the other end and light is streaming in from it, but this light is not enough to make the dark corners of the room visible. He rushes towards the open door, sniffing in the salty sea wind as he does so.

Is this some silly chance to escape?

When he is a metre away from his freedom, he can spot the cold North Sea present outside and -

A Dementor enters in from the door. He turns around to see more Dementors hovering around him like clouds of smoke. He is surrounded.

There is no escape. It had been a trap all along; they had been waiting for him in an ambush since the beginning.

They stare at him with those strange eyes-but-not-eyes of theirs for a moment, before leaning in.

 _"I'm going there. I'm nearly seventeen, anyway. You in?"_

 _Yes, Colin, I'm in._

. . . ...


End file.
